


Only For You

by Rinielle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinielle/pseuds/Rinielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘This is ridiculous’, he tells himself, afraid to go and speak to the man whose life he may very well have just saved; and he is afraid. Afraid of what he’ll say, what he must think. He’s always hated the way people treat him, hated that being born a prince makes people act like he’s special, above them, someone to be handled like glass. Now Grantaire had jumped in front of an assailant, put his life on the line to protect him, how would he react? Would he be angry? </p><p>What if asked him why he did it?</p><p>That was a question Grantaire didn’t feel qualified to answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only For You

“Honestly Joly, it’s nothing,” Grantaire sighs, leaning his head back against the wall as Joly continues to fuss at his shoulder. The physician turns his head slightly as he presses a cloth down on the newly acquired wound there, to stem the flow of blood, and sets to work cleaning up the skin around it. He raises an eyebrow at him. “It is not nothing,” he says, “Nothing would be you, not sat here after having a knife plunged through your body.”  
He has a point, Grantaire has to concede that, and though he hadn’t noticed at first, the more he thinks about it the more the wound is starting to sting.

“Nothing is what you were supposed to do.” Joly adds a moment later, apparently unable to hold in the admonishment any long. “You’re lucky she only got your shoulder before Bahorel got to her, she might have killed you!”

He lifts the cloth slightly to clean the wound itself and Grantaire closes his eyes in a wince, “She might have killed him if I hadn’t gotten in her way,” he says through slightly gritted teeth.  
“He’s not your responsibility,” Joly tuts at him, but when he opens his eyes again to watch him working he can see the hint of a smile on his face. Joly must sense him watching because he clears his throat and sets his expression to one of disapproval.  
“You know I don’t think straight when it comes to him,” Grantaire replies quietly as his hand is guided to the cloth, to hold it back in place, whilst Joly moves away to prepare bandages.  
“I know you have some crazy notion that his life is more important than yours,” Joly says, returning and beginning to wrap his shoulder.

“He is the crown prince,” Grantaire says with a laugh that jolts his shoulder, he winces again and Joly frowns at him. He continues anyway. “I think in the King’s eye his son and heir trumps some bastard great nephew he only keeps around out of pity or to show the masses how kind and generous he is,”

Joly’s frown fades away, softening into something more like understanding “In the King’s eye maybe,” he says, “But some of us actually quite like having you around,” he smiles, and Grantaire can’t help but smile back. ‘Some of us’ is right, he thinks, but although it’s only a small part of the King’s household that doesn’t look at him like he doesn’t belong there, it’s enough. He feels a sudden twinge of guilt at his reckless action, he wonders what must have gone through Joly’s mind when one of the servants ran ahead to tell him Grantaire had been wounded in an attack, whether Bahorel had time to see it wasn’t serious as he dragged the assailant off of him, and what of the others? Some would have been in the hall, others will have heard through gossip. Do they know he’s okay? He looks at his discarded jacket and shirt where they lie beside him. Both are covered with blood, though on the deep green of the jacket it is less obvious than the stark white shirt. Still, he must have looked a complete mess as Bossuet half carried him from the hall. He knows, of course he knows, that they will be worried, that they care about him; and though he also knows he would take the same course of action again in a heartbeat, he does suddenly feel bad about putting his friends through that.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Joly sighs, finishing off his handiwork and laying a hand on his good shoulder, “I’d say just don’t do it again,” he says, looking resigned, “But we both know you won’t promise that,” and with that he moves away to begin cleaning himself up. Grantaire scoots forwards, letting his feet touch the floor, pleased to find that standing isn’t any trouble. After leaving him in Joly’s capable hands, Bossuet had gone to fetch him clean clothes, and he reaches for the shirt. Getting it on is more of a chore than he’d hoped it would be, and Joly shakes his head and laughs at his struggle only for a moment before coming to his aid.  
  
“You’ll have to take things easy for a little while. It’s not as bad as it could have been, but try not to aggravate it?” he says, “I’d rather not see you for a few days,”  
  
“Charming,” replies Grantaire with a grin as the new jacket slides on, “And I thought you said you liked having me around,”  
  
“And I do. But if you open that wound again I might kill you myself, now go to your room and rest,”  
  
Grantaire laughs softly to himself, but he moves to do as he’s told, walking out of the physicians chamber and out into the corridor where he almost finds himself barrelled over. Before the small whirlwind that is Jehan can reach him and possibly put him right back into Joly’s care however they’re caught by Feuilly who is looking at Grantaire with such an expression of relief he very nearly falls backwards anyway. “Thank the Lord!” he says, and Jehan reaches out – more carefully now – to grasp his hand.  
“We were so worried,” they say gently, their face red. The two aren’t alone, in fact there’s quite a collection of faces in the corridor, all looking extremely pleased to see him and he feels a warmth growing in his chest as he looks around at his friends.

They are not all there, but he knows that many of them have duties still to perform and no time to wait on him. Indeed most of those who have come have to leave themselves, shortly after making sure he really is okay. Feuilly assures him that Bahorel is alright, the woman who attacked him is safely locked away, and he and Courfeyrac have been put on duty guarding the prison..

There is one notable absence however, and though he isn’t precisely surprised he can’t help but feel somewhat disappointed. Combeferre, who is the last to reach him to offer his own relief at his being alright, and who has always been not only perceptive but also to the point, grips his hand and says “He’s confined to his rooms,” and of course he is, someone just made an attempt on his life. He will be lucky if he’s allowed to ever so much as walk the palace grounds, without half an army at his back, for months.  
  
“How is he?” Grantaire asks Combeferre.  
  
“He’s well. I checked him over myself, he received no injuries, you saw to that,” Grantaire nods, relieved, and is about to turn and follow his physicians orders when Combeferre continues, “He was beside himself you know,” he says, matter of factly, “It took three guards just to get him to his room, he only stayed quietly because I promised to make sure you were alright and report back,”  
Grantaire isn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Enjolras has never been one for hysterics, and though they have always had something of a closeness between them – as any two who grew up together might have – he can’t imagine him falling prey to them for his sake; can’t imagine him falling prey to them full stop. The idea of it creates a strange sensation in his chest he can’t quite explain, and he tries to swallow it only to find it builds like a lump in his throat.

He coughs, lightly, and though it does nothing to dispel the feeling he is relieved to find he can still speak. “Well, you may tell him Joly has worked his usual magic, I will be right as rain in a day or two,” he says with a grin but the man doesn’t move.

Combeferre has always been difficult for Grantaire to read, his expressions are always so steady and well regulated but for a moment he could swear he almost looked disappointed with him. “Perhaps,” he says after a moment, “It might be better for you to tell him yourself. I have to speak to Joly on a professional matter, and as you know patience is not one of Enjolras’ virtues,” and with a small smile he turns away, walking through the door Grantaire himself just came through, and leaving him standing alone in the corridor.

He could simply go back to his own rooms. Combeferre will go back to see Enjolras eventually, and honestly Grantaire can’t imagine what he and Joly have to talk about so urgently since nobody else was hurt.  
  
It’s not as though he doesn’t want to see him. He does. Though he has no idea what to expect from the encounter after what Combeferre has said.  
‘This is ridiculous’, he tells himself, standing alone in the middle of a corridor, afraid to go and speak to the man whose life he may very well have just saved; and he is afraid. Afraid of what he’ll say, what he must think. He’s always hated the way people treat him, hated that being born a prince makes people act like he’s special, above them, someone to be handled like glass. When he had turned sixteen and was officially made the crown prince, Grantaire had been taken to one side and told in no uncertain terms that any familiarity they might have shared had to end and he had agreed. No argument they had ever had before or since could rival the one that followed his bowing and calling him ‘your highness’ even once they were away from the public eye. Now he had jumped in front of an assailant, put his life on the line to protect him, how would he react? Would he be angry? What if asked him why he did it?

That was a question Grantaire didn’t feel qualified to answer. Honestly he still hadn’t really thought about it; couldn’t really explain it to himself. The answer he had given Joly wouldn’t help him in this situation, if anything it would make things infinitely worse. All he had known in the moment was Enjolras was about to be hurt and he’d had to do something.

Several minutes have passed, and Combeferre still hasn’t come back out of the physician’s chamber. Indeed Grantaire is fairly certain he isn’t going to be coming back out at all until he leaves himself, and so he steels himself and after a few deep breaths begins to walk in the direction of the royal chambers.

* * *

It is easier than he expects to get through to Enjolras’ rooms. He had half expected to be turned away, security being as tight as it is, and especially since, even on a good day, some of the guards usually eye him with a certain level of distrust. Saving their prince’s life must have gained him at least a small amount of favour because not one tries to stop his progress and he finds Eponine standing vigil at the main doors. She doesn’t leave her position, though he can tell she wants to and that’s enough for him, she does tell him how she’s glad he’s not dead and that’s about as gushing as she ever gets. Then she lets him straight through the doors with a wink he can’t quite account for and suddenly he’s standing in the familiar rooms, facing a very familiar figure and he’s never felt more lost in his life.  
  
He doesn’t think he has ever seen Enjolras this way. Even when they were children he was always ridiculously well put together – by merit of having servants and valets fussing over him all day. Now he looks… there’s only one way to describe it: a mess. His boots have been left haphazard in the middle of the floor, his jacket has been tossed aside on his bed, his shirt, which is in disarray has specks of blood on it – ‘my blood’ Grantaire realises – and his hair is falling out of its tie back and sticking out in all directions. He looks like he was in the middle of pacing when Grantaire walks in, and he turns so fast, possibly expecting Combeferre, that he jolts slightly on seeing who has walked into his room.  
  
There are two more guards inside the room, and Grantaire hears the click of the door as one of them pulls it to behind him. With no idea what to say he settles for spreading his arms out as much as he can without his shoulder twinging – which, sadly, is not as far as he had hoped – in as nonchalant a way as he can muster.

Enjolras stares at him for a long moment without speaking, and Grantaire can feel his shoulder already starting to protest so he lets his arms drop again. The movement seems to wake Enjolras up and he takes a step forwards.

“You’re okay,” he says.  
  
“As you see,” Grantaire replies.

Enjolras moves closer and Grantaire fights the sudden urge to step back. He thinks for a moment that he’s going to hug him, and he feels his heart begin to beat erratically at the thought, but he stops a few feet away. His eyes don’t leave Grantaire’s face as he moves, but as he comes to a stop they flick over to his shoulder, and he makes an aborted movement, as if he were going to reach out to touch it but then thought better. His hand clenches into a fist at his side instead.

“There was blood,” he says quietly, and this is slowly becoming the strangest interaction they have ever shared. He seems unsure, quiet… scared? Three things Grantaire has never known him to be. Under normal circumstances Grantaire might quip that he did just get stabbed so, blood was probably to be expected, but he can’t seem to bring himself to make light of the situation with the way Enjolras is acting.  
  
“It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” he says softly instead, “Joly patched me up,” and he reaches up to tug the neck of his shirt sideways to reveal the bandages. Enjolras breath seems to catch slightly and his eyes narrow. He looks up and over Grantaire’s shoulder, to the guards beside his door.

“Leave us,” he says, and his tone is commanding. Grantaire is as surprised as the guards, Enjolras rarely ever orders anyone to do anything. He doesn’t believe he should have the right. If his father hadn’t threatened to sack people, he’d never have let the servants so much as straighten his pillows.  
“Your highness,” One of the guards says, flustered “Our orders…”

“Your orders were to keep me safe correct?”

“Yes your high…”  
  
“Well am I not safe with Grantaire?”

“That’s not…”

“Just an hour ago he prevented an attack against me that nobody else saw coming,” Grantaire has to feel a little sorry for the poor guards, after all, the woman had been in the palace’s employ for months, it was really only luck Grantaire even spotted the knife when he did, and that he was close enough to intervene.

“I would think,” continues Enjolras, “I am as safe with him as with anyone,”  
  
Nobody points out that Grantaire is injured, nor that, unlike the guards he has no sword or armour or any means of defending Enjolras except with his own body as he already had. The guards look at one another, unsure of what to do. On the one hand neither looks like they want to disobey their current orders, on the other a direct order from the prince has to carry weight.

Grantaire takes pity on them, “Wait outside.” He says, turning to them, “I swear to you, if anyone so much as throws a stone at the windows I will scream for your immediate assistance,”

After a few more moments of indecision, they do leave, though neither looks particularly happy about the arrangement. When the door has clicked shut behind them Grantaire turns back to face Enjolras, “They could be punished for this you know, if your father finds out,” he says gently, not wanting them to hear, though he’s sure they already know.

“I will take responsibility with my father if it comes to that,” says Enjolras, looking more self-assured now than before, he looks like he’s gearing up for whatever conversation it is he didn’t want to have in front of his guards.  
  
Grantaire moves further into the room, suddenly eager to put a little bit of space between them, “Why do I feel like we’re about to have an argument?” he asks.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” replies Enjolras, with an air that adds silently ‘but I will, if it comes to it’. What he actually adds, out loud, is “I just want to know why you did it.”  
  
“You already have a theory though,” says Grantaire, reaching out to trace the carvings that ran along one side of the little desk beside the window. He had done them himself when he was fifteen. Enjolras had attempted to do the other side. He had only just turned twelve then, and he had never had much of a talent for the arts. There was a large chunk of wood missing to mark his efforts.  
  
“If you did it because I’m the crown prince…”  
  
“That wasn’t it,” Grantaire says, cutting him off, and surprising himself.  
  
“Then why?”  
  
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Guess my body just moved on its own,” There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him he’s lying, he’s used to it, it’s there a lot where Enjolras is concerned, but he has never thought to explain it to himself before and now doesn’t seem like a smart time to start.  
  
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says his name as though he’s tired.

“Why are you so desperate to understand why?” Grantaire groans, wishing this conversation would just end. “Can’t you, just for once, let something go. Can’t you just be pleased that you’re alive,”

“Not at your expense,”

“I’m fine,”  
  
“You could have died!”  
  
“Well, I didn’t. So…”  
  
“So nothing,” Enjolras snaps, “You could have been killed, there were other guards there, and I’m not exactly defenseless myself unless you’ve forgotten!”

“Nobody else had even seen the knife!”

“You could have called out, could have warned me or the guards.” Enjolras is advancing on him as he speaks, and though he has at least an inch of height on him, Grantaire has never felt so small.

“There wasn’t time!” he says, desperately.

“You had no armour, no weapon, you could have died and for what?”  
  
“For you!” Grantaire snaps back.  
  
“How many times do I have to tell you…”  
  
“Not for the crown prince, you complete _ass_ , for you! Because _you_ were going to be hurt and _I_ couldn’t let that happen!” he’s shouting, when did he start shouting? For a moment he worries that the guards are going to misunderstand and come barging in, and he stares at the door in apprehension.  
Nothing happens. Nobody comes crashing into the room. He’s suddenly very aware how quiet it is and he turns back to find Enjolras staring at him again. So close he can feel heavy breaths on his face.

“Damn it,” he hisses, taking a step back and letting his head hang. Whatever excuse he had meant to come up with, that was the furthest thing from it, mostly because he knows it is the closest thing to the truth he has ever allowed himself to get.

When he finally gets together enough courage to look back at Enjolras he’s wearing that same slightly shocked, even vulnerable look he had worn when Grantaire first walked through the doors. He doesn’t speak, but slowly the expression shifts and it’s almost like Grantaire can see the wheels turning in his mind, though what they’re working towards he cannot say only that determination seems to have settled in blue eyes and there’s a fierceness to the curve of his lips as he purses them together and begins to stride forwards into the small space between them.

He watches as he raises one arm and for half a moment Grantaire has the bizarre notion that Enjolras is going to punch him, something he's never so much as hinted at doing before. When his hand doesn’t curl into a fist he wonders briefly if he is simply going to march right past him and out of the room. What never occurs to him, what never would have occurred to him, is the idea that that hand would slide over his jaw around the base of his neck and curl effortlessly into his hair. He barely has the chance to register surprise at that before those fierce lips are pressing against his own, and for a few seconds he thinks his mind must have stalled.

He pulls back, because he can think of no other response, because this has to have been a mistake or a misunderstanding or something. He must go several paces backwards because the backs of his thighs hit the desk. He can’t think. He just stands there, gaze fixed on the floor, his mind whirring to try and catch up with the rest of him. Enjolras had kissed him. Enjolras. Had kissed _him_. Why? Unable to comprehend he focuses instead on the pain in his shoulder, a protest to his sudden movement.  
  
"Oh God." he hears Enjolras say as he brushes his fingers over the place he'd been stabbed just an hour before, wincing slightly at the twinge, "I hurt you!" Enjolras' voice sounds wrecked, and Grantaire shakes his head.  
  
"It's fine," he says shortly.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, quieter than before and Grantaire finally glances up at him. He’s looking at him as he’s never looked before and Grantaire wonders what his own expression was doing, he must have looked horrified. Enjolras kissed him and he pulled away, looking horrified. What has he done?

“I thought. When you said that I thought perhaps…” he trails off, speechless, or not quite. “I was wrong,” he adds and Grantaire hates himself. He has often dedicated hours to proving Enjolras wrong, it’s almost like a game they play, but not like this. Never like this. Because, he realises quite suddenly, he is not wrong.

Enjolras is standing just a few metres away looking broken and it’s his fault, because he’s has always been a coward. Too afraid to examine the feelings he knew were there just out of sight. He can feel the pain in Enjolras’ expression in his own chest and how could he ever think that he wouldn’t be good enough, wouldn’t be enough, that he is anything less than the most incredible person Grantaire has ever known and that he wouldn’t want him, that he doesn’t love him with every fibre of his being.

Perhaps in the same way that it has escaped Grantaire himself all these years, the truth of it always just around a corner he was never willing to turn.

He has turned it now and there is no going back; he wouldn’t want to. How could he, when all the proof that his love is welcome, wanted, returned... is standing right in front of him.

“No,” he says, “I am sorry,”

This time it’s him who walks forward, Enjolras who flinches.

He is gentler in his own approach, letting his hand brush slowly across his cheek, thumb just grazing the edge of his lips – still slightly reddened – letting himself feel the softness in those golden curls and moving slowly in until he’s close enough to hear and feel the catch in Enjolras’ breath. “You were right,” he murmurs and he kisses him soft, and short and tender. Enjolras' hand finds a grip on his shirt.   
  
"I thought I'd lost you," he says, and it's not clear if he means the stabbing or Grantaire's panicked reaction. Either way.  
  
"Never," says Grantaire, and to further the point he kisses him again.  
  
They are neither of them particularly experienced, and at first things start too tentative as both come to terms with the reality that it is happening, then move too fast as Enjolras comes back to himself and tries to make up the difference with enthusiasm. Teeth knock and noses collide. But there is no sudden end this time, and eventually they settle to a rhythm, their lips are moving easily together, a steady balance. The hand that isn’t tucked into blonde hair finds his waist drawing him fractionally closer. One of Enjolras hands finds his good shoulder, pressing gently but with purpose to lessen the difference in height. Dipping slightly, Grantaire smiles into the kiss for a moment before breaking away to press more kisses to his jaw. It’s as he presses his lips to a strip of skin on his neck and Enjolras lets a particularly pleased sound leave his mouth that Grantaire remembers the guards. Remembers that someone just tried to kill this man, this perfect man standing in front of him. Someone very nearly denied him this and there's no guarantee they were acting alone. Drawing back, he presses a simpler, more chaste kiss to Enjolras lips then says "We should call your guards back,"  
  
Enjolras gazes at him for a moment and raises an eyebrow, "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer not having an audience,"  
  
Grantaire laughs, feeling lighter than he can ever remember, "They will be getting anxious, and though you don't seem concerned for your own safety, someone did try to kill you. It's okay to accept protection,"  
  
"So protect me,"   
  
"Didn't we go through this?" says Grantaire, trying hard to recall what had come before that first kiss, "No armour, no weapon, not to mention an injured shoulder, not much of a protector,"  
  
Enjolras' response to that is to press further into his hold on his waist and wrap own arm more firmly around Grantaires shoulder, and say "Mmm, I feel quite well protected thank you," and there's something wicked in the way he meets his eye that causes Grantaire to lose track of his thought processes for a moment and turn red enough to make Jehan proud. Suffice to say its a side to Enjolras he has never seen before, come to think of it he doesn't think he's ever known Enjolras to so much as show interest in anyone before, never mind, whatever this is. On reflection, when he has taken a few seconds to get his mind working properly again, he is certainly not opposed to getting to know it. Indeed there is more than one part of him screaming not to let this opportunity slip by. It would be so easy, it says. The guards will not enter unless asked, Combeferre has made it rather clear that he would not be returning, the King is in conference with his advisors and will be there for hours. They have time, but, his mind also supplies, there will be time enough in the days, months, years to come that he intends to ensure Enjolras sees, and until he can feel sure that this particular threat has passed, he knows he wouldn't forgive himself if anything else were to happen. Besides which, with the way Enjolras is still looking at him, he can't quite guarantee he would take due care not to further damage his shoulder. It would be nice to actually spend those years with Enjolras instead of being murdered by Joly because he couldn't keep himself patched up for more than a couple of hours.  
  
He kisses him again, because he can, and Enjolras must read his thoughts through it because when they part he sighs resignedly and lets go, taking a step back and starting to right himself. By the time he's finished he looks more presentable than when Grantaire first arrived. Grantaire is still a dishevelled mess, but that's normal enough not to raise suspicion. It's Enjolras who opens the doors and informs the guards that they may resume their posts. As they trudge back into the room he wraps a hand around Grantaire's wrist.  
  
"I am glad you're alright," Enjolras says, and his eyes speak to the intensity with which he means it.  
  
Grantaire returns the gesture, gripping Enjolras wrist in return. "I'll see you when this blows over," he replies, hoping the promise in his eyes reaches him. Then they both release each other and Grantaire turns to leave, the guards close the door behind him and he stops on the other side and lets out a breath.   
  


* * *

  
He stands there a few moments in silence until a small cough behind him alerts him to Eponine's continued presence on his side of the door. He turns and she smiles, a little too knowingly.   
  
"That seems like it went well,"  
  
He feels himself blush again, but it's okay, it's safe with her.   
  
"Did they..." he starts, wondering just how much they did hear and how much is Eponine being ridiculously adept at reading people.  
  
"Men are useless," she says fondly, and it's enough of a confirmation for him. He smiles at her and she grins back.  
  
"In that case yes, I think it went very well," he says and leaves her to her duty, happy to know she's there guarding the man he loves, and who loves him in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire not being fully aware of the depth of his feelings is my everything!!!
> 
> \---
> 
> P.S. How much do you think Enjolras would hate me for making him a Prince? I mean I'mma do it anyway because Royalty AU's are like my life blood so... nevermind.
> 
> Come see me on tumblr: revenjolras


End file.
